


bright as the eagle's eye

by blackkat



Series: hawks 'verse [6]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meddling brothers, Mutual Pining, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25241638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Savage wakes up and doesn’t feel like absolute death.Given the way the last few weeks have gone, this is probably more of a surprise than it has any right to be.
Relationships: Feral & Savage Opress, Feral & Waxer (Star Wars), Savage Opress/Waxer (Star Wars)
Series: hawks 'verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825195
Comments: 35
Kudos: 668





	bright as the eagle's eye

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: If you want,,, Waxer/savage stuff them mutually pining from savages POV with feral trying to be nice and give advice but ends up embarrassing him and maul ruthlessly mocking him (but trying to push them together bc in the end he does want to see his bro happy)

Savage wakes up and doesn’t feel like absolute death.

Given the way the last few weeks have gone, this is probably more of a surprise than it has any right to be, but—it’s _strange_. Savage simply lies where he is for a moment, staring up at the poster of the Horsehead Nebula that Feral tacked up above his bed, and assesses. The low-level headache that’s been a constant for weeks is gone, and his bones don’t hurt the way they did. The dizzy vagueness, like existing in the middle of a cotton ball, is gone too, and even having just woken up Savage feels more coherent than he has in a while.

A little bewildered, he sits up, reaching automatically for his phone to check the time, only to remember just as his fingers graze empty air that it died a tragic death falling down the stairs in the History building. But—there's sunlight coming in through the windows, and panic kicks in a moment later, the surge of _I'm late_ that always comes with waking up to daylight. Normally Feral wakes him up, or Maul does, but—

He can hear voices, though. Feral, for sure, and someone else, and they both sound at ease over the faint clatter from the kitchen. Savage stays where he is for a moment, sitting up in bed, and then pushes to his feet. There's a basket of laundry, neatly folded, sitting by his dresser, and Savage blinks at it for a long moment. He hasn’t done laundry in—far too long, probably, but midterms are closing in and he has projects due and he just hasn’t had the _time_.

Savage hasn’t had the time for much, recently.

Feeling mildly suspicious—because Feral hates laundry and Maul hates everything, and therefor either of them taking the time to do it and then fold it is _weird_ —Savage grabs a sweatshirt from the pile and pulls it on, though for the first time in days he doesn’t feel achingly cold. Quietly, not sure what time it is, he eases his door open and slips out, and follows the sound of laughter towards the kitchen. There's an unfamiliar backpack sitting with Feral’s by the kitchen table, and Savage frowns, rounding the corner—

And stopping dead, entirely caught off guard by the sight of the TA from his psych class standing with Feral at the stove, both of them liberally smeared with flour. There's a tray of rolls in front of them, the soup pot steaming gently beneath its lid on the back burner, and Feral is smiling like Savage hasn’t seen in _months_.

Vaguely, distantly, Savage can recall running into the TA before, or the guy waking him up, but—it’s foggy. Much, much clearer is the memory of the guy in class, always easygoing and kind, even in the face of students breaking down at him. Professor Tholme was never overly approachable, and Savage had always been of the opinion that that was why he picked this guy in particular to be his assistant.

It’s also more than a little possible that he’s the whole reason Savage didn’t drop the class and try to find a version with a different professor. The class itself was mildly stressful, one more thing that Savage had to put extra effort into when he had none to spare, and Savage had endured it because he had to, but—seeing that guy smiling at the front of the room, or hearing him talk, always seemed to ease things, just a little bit.

Of course, that doesn’t even begin to explain why he’s in Savage’s house.

“ _Waxer_ ,” Feral says, mournful but laughing, and waves sticky hands at the TA. “How are you _doing_ that?”

Waxer snorts, but he’s smiling as he takes the blob of dough from Feral’s hands. “Don’t overwork it. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just mostly round. Like this.”

“Oh.” Feral frowns, then reaches for another blob, dunking his hands in a bag of flour Savage is fairly certain he didn’t own yesterday. “Just fold?”

“Pull and scrunch,” Waxer corrects, and then smiles. There’s flour on his soul patch, making it look grey, and a streak across one temple. More is smeared on one bare bicep, a handprint like Feral smacked him, and Savage has to swallow, just a little. He traces a look up Waxer’s form, and—

In class he was always neatly dressed in slacks or jeans and button-down shirts, and Savage may have had a passing thought or two about how fun it would be to muss him up a little. Right now, though, he’s wearing a thin, sleeveless shirt, worn soft enough to cling, and faded old jeans with threadbare knees. Savage can see the outline of muscles in his back, a tally mark tattoo just below his collarbone. His voice is soft as he shows Feral another way to shape the rolls, and Feral leans over him, right into his space, unselfconscious. Given the way he normally is with strangers, Savage doesn’t know whether to be worried or impressed.

“If there’s flour on the ceiling, you’re scrubbing it off,” he says, and steps through the door, careful of his head. Whatever is on the stove smells _good_ , and it’s almost startling to realize how hungry he is.

Waxer startles, almost dropping the dough, and turns. Before he can say anything, though, Feral spins, face lighting up. “Savage!” he says, delighted, and throws himself forward. The impact rocks Savage back on his heels, but he snorts and loops an arm around Feral, ignoring the sticky hands smearing dough across his clean sweatshirt.

“Hey,” he says, and pauses, trying to remember. “You were at the college? Where was Maul?”

Feral pulls back, rolling his eyes. “He skipped again,” he says, and it takes a lot to annoy Feral, but there's a trace of that in his voice. “And he turned his phone off. He won't tell me where he went.”

Savage doesn’t sigh, but only because this is a familiar occurrence by now. Maul seems dead set on giving Savage an ulcer before he turns twenty-five, and he’s been working steadily at it all year now. “I’ll talk to him,” he promises, because it’s one thing to skip school, but it’s another entirely to leave Feral stranded somewhere.

“He’s in his room and he won't come out,” Feral reports, but this at least he doesn’t seem bothered by. Slipping out of Savage’s hold, he grins and says, “Waxer and I cleaned the house and did all the laundry! And we went grocery shopping.”

“I'm sorry to intrude,” Waxer says quickly, and his smile is a little sheepish as he steps forward. “My brother is a medical student, and he said I shouldn’t leave before you woke up. I may have…gone overboard.”

Savage blinks at him, still processing. The whole house was a disaster zone the last time he bothered to look, and the laundry was worse, and—

“Groceries?” he asks, because he’s been _meaning_ to go, but Feral and Maul get food at school and he has a meal pass, so it’s possible he’s been putting that off, too.

Quickly, Waxer raises his hands. “Just basics,” he says, like that’s going to be what Savage objects to. “I made soup, so that you’d have something easy to eat, and I got things for a few other meals that Feral can put together while you're recovering, so that should make things a little easier.”

“Waxer showed me how to make cream sauce!” Feral says, very pleased with himself. “Even Maul liked it.”

If Maul admitted that, Savage will eat his socks. But Feral’s good at reading what Maul doesn’t say, so Savage is willing to accept the proclamation. “That’s good,” he says, and then the wording strikes him. “I—how long was I asleep?”

Worry flickers over Feral’s face, but Waxer smiles. “It’s Saturday,” he says, which is mildly alarming, because the last thing Savage remembers is Thursday. “You woke up a few times, but Kix—my brother said it was best to just let you sleep until your fever broke.”

“Oh,” Savage says, disconcerted. He doesn’t remember any of that. But—Waxer woke him up at the university, and he must have gotten Savage and Feral home somehow, and then stayed. Cleaned, and cooked, and clearly Feral has imprinted, which is a rare thing. But if Waxer was taking care of him, that makes sense.

Then, with a jolt, Savage remembers all the assignments he has looming, and his heart sinks. He stiffens, and says, “My bookbag—”

“By the door,” Waxer says. “My twin’s an Engineering student, too, and he’s in some of your classes, so he talked to the teachers and got you extensions on everything that’s due. They should have emailed you any new work, and the notes, too.”

Savage feels a little lightheaded, and he has to swallow for entirely different reasons. “Thanks,” he says roughly, and takes a step forward. Looks towards the cupboard, but before he can move towards it, Waxer is turning, getting a glass and then filling it with water for him. He sets it at the table, and as Savage sinks down in the seat, Waxer smiles at him.

“There’s chicken soup, if you want some,” he offers. “The rolls aren’t done yet, but there are crackers if you’d like.”

“Yes,” Savage says, and can't quite look away from the edge of the tattoo below Waxer’s collarbone, half-covered by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Waxer turns, but before he can get it, a buzzer sounds. The dryer, Savage thinks, and makes to push to his feet, but Waxer is already moving.

“Would you get the soup?” he asks Feral, who nods. “Thanks, Feral. I’ll be right back.”

Still entirely bewildered, with a knot he can't quite explain sitting low in his stomach, Savage watches him go. The quiet click of a bowl being set in front of him makes him startle, and he glances up to find Feral smiling at him.

“I like Waxer,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite Savage. “You do too, right?”

Savage doesn’t flush. Mostly because he’s used to Feral’s ability to read him, even when he’d really rather not be read. It always makes hiding birthday presents a pain and a half. Instead of answering, he grunts and takes his first spoonful of soup, which is—definitely not out of a can. Savage can't remember the last time he took the time to cook something like this.

“He says one of his little brothers likes astronomy, too,” Feral says, apparently not about to let this subject drop despite the look Savage gives him. “He’s got a telescope, and Waxer says he’s going to set it up next weekend, if I want to go and stay the night.”

Savage frowns, a curl of unease rising. Waxer’s pretty, and clearly sweet, but he’s practically a stranger. “Feral—”

“You can come too!” Feral says quickly. “He said all of us were invited. A bunch or professors from the university will be there, and the Astrophysics professor, too. One of Waxer’s brothers is dating him, so he said he’d introduce me.”

Savage breathes out, trying to think of anything that will keep him inside next weekend. Homework, definitely, but—

If he has extensions, even for just half of his assignments, that suddenly gives him more breathing room. It’s almost bewildering how much more, actually.

“All right,” he says, and Feral beams.

“Thanks, Savage!” he says, and when Waxer calls his name, he practically bounces to his feet. “You should ask Waxer out, I think he likes you too.”

Savage chokes on his next mouthful of soup, but Feral is already gone. As Savage tries not to asphyxiate on a chunk of carrot, there’s a loud scoff, and Maul stalks into the room, looking derisive.

“He’s _pathetic_ ,” he says.

“Maul,” Savage manages, as close as he can get to chiding.

Maul rolls his eyes, but helps himself to some of the soup. “He looks at you like he’s a _puppy_ ,” he says, wrinkling his nose. Turns, then pauses, looking Savage over with narrowed eyes for a moment. Then, apparently satisfied that Savage isn't dead, he nods curtly and leaves the room, taking the soup and a sleeve of crackers with him.

Well, Savage thinks. At least he’s eating.

From down the hall, there's a burst of laughter, and Savage pauses, raising his head. The house is clean, and full of light, and he can see Waxer at the edge of the laundry room door, smiling at Feral. Thinks, for a moment, of Waxer waking him up, one blurred image of his worried face and his hand on Savage’s shoulder, and then the sight of him in the kitchen.

All those fantasies of pushing him up against the wall and rumpling him a little never quite felt like this, Savage reflects ruefully. But—

Well. Maybe this is even better, really.


End file.
